


Wasteland Shadows

by DarkCaustic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkCaustic/pseuds/DarkCaustic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are shadows here. In your smile, in our bed, cradling our lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wasteland Shadows

            There are shadows here. They catch along your smile, hang out. I think I like that. Gnarled hands, crow’s feet, wrinkles like rivulets, little valleys, not too many, just ones that hang out when the day is bright, just enough to give you a dusting of age, like a good whiskey.

            Yeah, there’s space in your skin now for the light to snag on you and I like that. Like that you get that: age.

 

***

           

            You come home.

Three a.m. with a bloody hand and an aching shoulder. You roll it under the fingertips of your opposite hand, pretending not to grimace as you do. Try to shake me back to bed when I get up. _You okay, baby?_

            Kiss you between the shoulder blades. You like that, even if you don’t admit it. Your clothes and skin are cold to the touch. I drag my arms down your front, snag in your belt loops and pull you flush to me. Let the cold drip out of your bones and soak into mine.

              _I’m not… don’t_ , you start to protest. Give up.

            I sink my smile into the skin on the back of your neck. _Tough night?_

           You sigh, low and heavy. Makes you drift deeper into me. Like we could melt into one. _Yeah,_ you admit.

            I drop you down onto the bed, slip to my knees and pull your boots off. Sticky with old beer and unidentifiable bar muck. Heaven only knows and I sure as hell don’t want to know. Roll off your socks and then look up at you.

            You’re hooded, tired in a way that doesn’t say “I just bounced for eight hours,” but in a way that says, “I fought for the world and this is what my life became.”

            I pull your hand into mine. A split knuckle. Nothing really. Just a scratch, hardly enough to bleed. Kiss it. You’re skin is so cold it’s almost blue.

  _They had you on the door all night?_ I ask, tracing my fingers down your palm. Love line. My lifeline.

 _Yeah,_ you say. Apparently your word of the night. _Just scrapped the wall. Didn’t punch anyone tonight._

  _What a shame_ , I mock, smile up at you.

             You smile back, but no crow’s feet make an emergence. A liar smile. Placating me. Cup your palm against my face. Finally starting to warm up, at least.

            I lay my hands on the inside of your knees for a moment, idly play with the denim then get to my feet and lean down, kiss you once.

 You hardly return it.

  _Right back, baby,_ I promise.

 Go to the bathroom and return with that rub that heats and cools. The good stuff – the kind that doesn’t stink to high heaven. I pull you out of your shirt, unbutton your jeans while you sit, limp, watching me, not watching me. I’m not sure.

 Press you back into the bed and you go willingly, let me work it into your skin, a promise to always take care of you.

 Four a.m., I convince you to sleep in my arms with gentle touches, wrap your weary body down into mine. I know you’re safe here. I like that.

If the boys could see you now, they’d never let you live it down.

 There are no crow’s feet when you smile at them.

***

There are shadows here, too. In the house I picked out. The house you bitched out about.

They cling to the banister around the stairs. The one the sixteen-year-old girl banged her head on years ago and consequently became a ghost. We salted and burned her bones two years ago, right when your knees were starting to really go and getting out of graves was becoming a bigger task then it used to be. When everything was getting dark and heavy and oppressive and the lines on your face started to show.

 I pulled you up into the master bedroom, while all the furniture was still covered in sheets like an impromptu Halloween party for inanimate objects and you let me fuck you into the hardwood (not before having a giggle over the pun). I waited till you were post-coital bliss to say I wanted to make an offer.

 We knew the place wasn’t haunted, after all.

***

            Those same shadows cling to the front room window, where you are always pulling the curtains closed.

  _Someone could see_ , you said. Meaning us.

 I blanched on the couch with a soggy bowl of marshmallow dotted cereal between my splayed legs, looking out at the green lawn. Our fucking green lawn. Mother fucking yes, you asshole. Let them see.

 Which I didn’t say. Instead I sputtered out, _so?_ through a mouthful of milk.

  _So!_ You hissed, tugged the curtains closed and stormed up the stairs with your black cloud in tow.

 ***

 The shadows even cradle your truck. The used Chevy you picked out; big and rattling and tan. Takes up half the road. Makes other drivers accuse you of over compensating, and you aren’t. I’d know.

 The one I drove to pick you up from the bar at three thirty one morning when some snot nosed 20 something stole the Impala’s fucking _headlights_ and there are too many cops on the road at that hour to drive home without getting pulled over.

 When I climbed out of that truck, the boys looked up from their long necks in the parking lot and asked why wasn’t I bouncing instead of you.

 Always good to have a big guy on staff, they said.

 The snickers down the beer-hazed line of men did nothing for your ego and I remember scratching the inside of my palm to keep myself from reaching for you. Blowing your cover. Grounding you into me. Saying, “What do those idiots know?”

Not that things that go bump in the night are real.

 Not that you died for them more then once.

 Not that you are getting kinkier sex then all of them combined on a _very_ frequent basis.

 You laughed it off though. Said your little brother hits like a girl.

 Didn’t stop the sputtering and spit takes. _Little brother?_

  _I thought that was your boyfriend,_ the round one said. He quit a week later with a black eye and a very impassioned desire to not talk about it.

 Went back to substitute teaching. Guess intimidating high school kids is easier then dealing with drunks.

 Or working alongside you, I guess.

 

***

            There are shadows in our bed.

 I see you waiver. Always waiver, right there next to it. Like you are a timid diver, trying to decide if the jump is right, if you can land smoothly. Don’t make a splash.

 I picked out the headboard. You picked out the mattress.

  _No magic fingers?_ You joked, startling the bed salesmen behind you.

  _No magic fingers_ , I said back, going to pick linen. Debate buying lilac just to piss you off but settle on forest green and midnight blue.

 You tease me about the thread count all the way home, but when you sink in beside me that night (after hesitating for only a dozen seconds), you take it all back.

 Make it up to me in the best way possible.

 The mattress doesn’t squeak and the headboard doesn’t rattle against the wall, the neighbors can’t hear us and the sheets are soft. I rolled you into me once you were spent and kissed your hair and remind you this is ours. Really ours.

 You white knuckle the bedspread till you fall asleep.

 

***

There are shadows here, on your face. You stood in the kitchen, with your back to the light and an ad for a new club opening in town looking for doormen.

 _You don’t need to work_ , I reminded you.

 You shrugged. But I get it. Something to do.

 A lot of skills are rusting like your arsenal in the trunk. Why let them go to waste?

So you bounce, and I find a gig as a paralegal, and we meet in the middle.

In the wasteland shadows of our bed, where your hands are forgiving and your eyes are sweet.

You smile at me in the morning light, face scrunched up with rivulets, tiny divides of time, crow’s feet, delight. Lace your fingers through mine. Love line to love line, my lifeline.

 I ask you if you are happy.

 You shrug your sore shoulder and say you’d always thought the end would be dark. Or maybe really bright.

 Out with a bang.

 A big, bloody bang.

 There are no whimpers for us.

 

Though I want to keep you all to myself, Dean Winchester, I have some sort of obligation to share, so I tumble you out of our bed and reassemble your component pieces – jeans, boots, shirts, jackets – and send you back to the bar with a slap on the ass. You stumble away, smile at me. Crow’s feet and laughter, a good day’s stubble hanging onto you.

 And take comfort in this.

 Take solace in the shadows. Our shadows.

 Cause you’re not going out with a bang.

You’re not sinking into the dark.

You’re staying here with me. 

 

And there are shadows here.

But that’s all they are.

            Simple shadows.


	2. The Wasteland Wind

It storms a lot here in August. That hazy place between summer and fall. I wake up often to the sound of it rattling against the house. Knocking that big tree back and forth so that she scrapes our bedroom window like a demon begging to be let in.

You wake with me, though you’ve only been asleep a handful of hours. Sleep-warm and hardly there, but enough to know I need you, wrap yourself around me and say, _Go back to sleep, Dorothy, the wicked witch isn’t coming for you this time._

I’d laugh or get offended at the girl name in another circumstance, but right now, it’s the perfect words that I needed to hear so I just sink back into you. 

To where it is warm and safe and your heartbeat knocks slow and dreamy into my back. Reminds me of train tracks passing easily under our feet when we explore the edge of town, but know it’s always going to lead us back here, somewhere, somehow.

Nothing dark and drastic is stealing us from our home in Kansas this time.


	3. Wasteland Home

_When you think about home, do you think about my ring?_

I asked you that once and you looked at me like I was an idiot.       

 _Your ring?_   You repeated, like you were searching for the piece you missed somewhere along the railroad tracks of thought.

 _Yes_ , I said. _My ring_. And I looked down at my right hand, at the simple, silver band.

 _Do you?_ you asked.

I didn’t reply. If you couldn’t get on board, why should I explain that to you?

 

You went about making this house a home.

 _A home should be full of things we like_ , you said.

 _I like beer and rock and roll,_ I said.

 _Don’t worry, there will be plenty of both_ , you promised me.

 _I also like naked women_ , I said. Waggled my eyebrows at you and grinned ear to ear.

You punched me in the arm for that one. Guess I shouldn't sugest plasting playboy centerfolds over the bed I'm going to share with the man I love.

 

But it was something about the way you went about it. Mowing the lawn, picking out dishes like I could care less if we had plain white bowls or the ones with the blue trim, and the curtains. The mother fucking curtains.

 _They have to match the couch._ You said, crossed your arms, exhaled through your nose in that way you always do when I’m annoying you and I don’t know what it is that I’ve done to annoy you this time.

  _But you didn’t pick out the couch, Sammy_ , I said. Cause you didn’t. This was some dead person’s house we got for cheap with the furniture left behind in it. You decided most of the furniture was good enough to stay. Only donating the few awkward pieces ( _We don’t need a room divider from Japan._ And burning the dead girl’s belongings under the explanation of “just in case.”)

 _I know that_ , you replied, all kinds of exasperated. _But I want it to look nice. We’re going to live here_.

  _Yeah, yeah_ , I muttered and went to walk off.

But you caught me. Caught me all up in your octopus arms and asked me if I was alright. Tried to kiss me.

I told you I was fine. Called you an asshole and went and buried my head under the hood of the Impala even though there was nothing wrong with her.

 

***

I was cussing and you were staring at me like I was a fool.

_What’s wrong?_

I kept cursing and that somehow kicked in your Mother-Hen mood and you pulled me into your arms though I was fighting you as you started looking for wounds. Turning your hands over my body and seeking out cuts or scraps or bruises or broken bones while I tried to wriggle out of your grasp but, fuck, I was so pissed off and you felt so good.

Warm and solid and real.

Something I could hold onto.

And then you came to rest on the nick on my wrist and looked from the tiny drop of blood to my eyes and back again, trying to make it make sense.

 _This is it?_ you asked.

I didn’t reply.

You kissed my palm. Ran your hand over my head, down my neck, across my back and pulled me in.

 _Tell me what’s going on_ , you begged.

 _Nothing_ , I lied. Let you stew in it. You didn’t press it, but did press yourself all up against me. In the cold of the garage – our garage, my garage, I’m not sure – you were desert warm and I was basking in you.

 

***

It was your fucking office party that brought it all to ahead.

You introduced me as your “partner.” Like we had a law firm or something together. I hate that word.

I’m your brother. I’m your lover.

Pick one or admit to both but don’t make it sound so sterile and domestic and polite. The filth I can get out of your mouth when I’ve got you bent over the stairs is anything but polite.

But no. Partner. I’d give you shit about it later. Later, when this middle-aged woman with clumpy eyeliner wasn’t giving me her best forced smile while trying to figure out the   easiest way to slip you “Pray-The-Gay-Away” pamphlets without the boss finding out.

I slunk off into a corner where the only men who seemed to understand the basics of football were leering over a livestream of the Green Bay Packers vs. who cares and the next time I looked up you had somehow developed a baby.

I mean, you were holding a baby.

Not one of those little, pinched-looking, just-born ones, but the bigger ones I can never tell if they are old enough yet to walk or not and you looked so lit up about it, like the forth of July, just smiling at this kid and touching it’s hand and basking in all it’s baby-glory.

I detangled myself from the football heard to figure out what was going on.

_Uhh… Sammy? Where’d you find the baby?_

_Oh, she’s mine_ , the cute brunette emerging from a cubicle said. She was pulling her hair up into a bun as she spoke. _Her name is Claire_ , she continued talking like I’d asked and I definitely hadn’t. _And for some reason, she always calms down for Sam_.

The bitch positively beamed and took the baby back from Sam and rested it on her chest.

_You mean Sam’s held it, I mean, her before?_

_Sometimes I bring her into work and she gets fussy and Sam has always been good at calming her down_ , the lady said, like that was the most normal thing in the world. _He’d make a great father_ , she continued. Let the implication hang.

I stared at you and you squirmed, adjusted your sleeve. Didn’t meet my eyes.

 _Do you guys ever think you’ll adopt?_ The lady who didn’t know when to stop asked.

 _We haven’t talked about it_ , I said. Probably more harshly than I meant before stomping out into the parking lot.

I’m pretty sure you apologized before joining me in the car.

We didn’t speak on the ride home.

Well, the ride to the home you made.

***

_What’s wrong with you?_ You asked, accusatory six-ways to Sunday when we get back to our house.

 _Nothing!_ I hollered back and pried open a bottle of beer. Though I wanted something stronger. Way stronger. But I didn’t even have so much as a fucking bottle of Jack in the house.

 _Don’t give me that_ , you say and crowd up into my space. Try to intimidate me with your height. You know better than to try to intimidate me, Sammy. But I don’t say that.

I step out of your way and tell you I’ll be back when I’m good and ready.

***

 

Probably shouldn’t have stayed gone as long as I did.

Cause you treated me like a spooked wild animal when I returned – two days later. Rumpled clothes, scruffy face, half-wild eyed. Wanting you.

Not wanting you.

Not know what I want.

 _Dean._ You say. But don’t cross the room to me. _Dean?_

_Sorry, Sammy._

_Where’d you go?_

_To take care of some stuff,_ I lie and push towards you. Because you’re, fuck, you’re everything to me. Always have been. Always will be. All that forever shit and I don't even mean it sarcastically. There's no getting Sammy out of my skin/mind/heart/soul. You're like my fucking shadow. Always there.

You inhale deeply. That big barrel chest of yours filling to the brim as you hang onto the kitchen counter. You want to say something. Tell me you were worried about me or yell at me or something, but you don’t.

You let me wrap my arms around you. You were always better at this forgiving stuff than I was.

 _Do you want kids?_ I ask.

You grip me tighter.

 _I know you do. Or did._ I say. The apple-pie, American dream shit. I know you’ve got grad school pamphlets tucked under a stack of dusty books on your desk. But I don’t tell you that.

 _I want you more,_ you say.

I sigh and breathe you in. You haven’t showered since I left. Probably haven’t even eaten.

 _Where’d you go?_   you ask again and run your hand so gently through my hair, it’s like being caressed by a ghost. Afraid I’ll spook and leave you alone again.

It’s probably a legitimate fear. I don’t feel like I’m fully on my feet.

_Sammy?_

_Yeah?_

_Take me to bed._ I beg.

You pull back. Hold my face between your hands and stare into my eyes. Searching for something. I don’t know what. But then you lean in and kiss me tenderly. Delicately. Like I’m made of glass and porcelain dust.

 _Anything you want_ , you say, and call me _baby_. It always makes my insides twist up in a funny way when you do that.

But you don’t do it very much.

You take me by the hand and guide me up the stairs to our room. Our room that you picked out the sheets. The bed that you usually make is still in twisted disarray from the last time we made love – slow and sweet the morning before your office party.

 _Haven’t slept?_ I mutter.

 _You were gone_ , you say with this broken expression that makes me wish I wasn’t the reason it was there.

 _I know, I’m sorry_ , I say and wind my hand around the back of your head and pull you flush to me.

You cling onto me again, trembling.

 _I had something I had to take care of_. We sit on the edge of the bed, practically in each other’s laps, not ready to let go yet.

 _What?_ You ask, gripping my hands, your fingers pressed against my ring.

I stare down at them. At the scab on the edge of my wrist. _Finding a new home for baby_ , I say.

_What?_

I don’t want to meet your eyes but I do. _You gave up things for me, I can give up things for you_.

_I never asked you to give up your baby._

You squeeze my knuckles so hard it hurts.

 _I know_. _I know. But I thought about what you gave up for me._

 _I didn’t give up anything,_ you say.

This half-truth sticks to both of us.

_Yeah, you did._

We’re both silent for a moment.

 _Dean, go get her back,_ you tell me.

 _No. No._ I shake my head and only when I stop do I realize the rest of me is shaking too.

 _Dean,_ you coo, tangle yourself up in me, hands all over my flesh. _Dean,_ you sob. _She was your home._

I think I smile. All the wires in my head are too knotted up to tell. _You’re my home. This is home_ , I say as the wind rattles the tree outside, her shadow dancing across the ceiling like cobwebs.

You breathe my name, gathering up as much of me as you can, then slip your hands down over mine. Tears hanging in your eyes, but not falling yet.

 _Your leather band?_ you ask, thumb resting on the knick on my wrist.

 _I snapped it by accident_ , I admit.

That’s when I can see it all click inside of you.

 _Home._  you say. Run your hand over my ring. _Home?_

 _Home._ I agree, push my face into your chest where I can smell you best. _I’m sorry_.

***

 

In the morning, everything looks bright and bleak. You drink your coffee black and give me small, ghost smiles.

We don’t speak. You go to work in the morning and I go to work in the evening. Deal with drunks for eight hours.

Come home after dark.

Find you curled on your side with the light on, staring out the window with tears still drying in your eyes.

I go to you. Sit beside you. Lay my hands on you.

_What’s wrong, baby?_

You look up at me like startled out of a reverie.

 _I know you never wanted this_. You say.

 _I want you_. I say and hold you to my chest. _I want you._


End file.
